


Home Ice Advantage

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Hockey, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Online Dating, Sexting, matthew almost punched alfred in the fuckin face, way too dramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 12:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13213512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Alfred’s not playing hockey he’s filling the emptiness in his chest with alcohol. Even with his vast riches, he can’t overcome the loneliness. People saw his life as perfect, he shouldn’t of been asking for more. Being him, he does anyway.





	Home Ice Advantage

**Author's Note:**

> Holy FUCK this took so long to finishh, but it’s finally done
> 
> well hockey is my life so I was sitting around one day and I was like
> 
> “Woah. Hockey and hetalia??? What’s good ao3??”
> 
> Enjoy!!

Another day wasted. Another day spent feigning happiness. Another day alone. 

Alfred always thought the riches would complete him, or the fact that he played hockey for a living, maybe even the countless friends he had. Anyone else would kill to be in his shoes and Alfred was sure that was a sign that he should've been satisfied with his life. But it barely provided him a temporary satisfaction. A satisfaction that lasted about as long as the short-lived intoxication induced by the cheap alcohol Alfred kept in his fridge. The same beverage he'd developed an addictive liking for. At this rate, if he died alone it would be in a pile of beer bottles.

He leaned against the door to his house, a chilling breath entering his throat. Just once Alfred played with the idea of ditching the alcohol. One night of freedom was all he was asking for. His schedule had began to reveal repetitive traits: eat, play hockey, drink, sleep. Plus, The mornings of throbbing headaches quickly began to deal botheration. Too bad his willpower was weak. 

His gym bag slipped off his shoulder and fell down beside his aching feet, right along with his hockey stick. Alfred had left his shoes at the door, abandoning them for his kitchen. There was really only one thing he wanted at the moment, as much as he'd begged himself to stay away.

He was sore; an ache pulsating from the soles of his feet to his shoulders. As he walked, the sharp pain in his legs morphed into a tough stiffness. His muscles felt as though they'd been filled with cement, it was more painful than it sounded. Alfred winced, kneading his thigh right where it hurt. He'd left to practice early and gotten home late. Sure, the exercise had proven -- multiple times -- that it did wonders for his skill and strength. But, it wasn't easy. He had to push through his significantly shortened temper, created by the multiple annoyances he went through on ice.

Each time Alfred's fist hit a punching bag he thought of no one other than his competition. More or less his competition being a specific player he was constantly compared to. A condescending, stuck-up, conceited, Canadian cunt. 

He opened the door to his fridge, harshly pulling out a drink.

Matthew Williams; the God that played for the Edmonton Oilers. Sure, there were no severe rivalries between his own team -- the Dallas Stars -- and the Oilers, but Alfred and Matthew shared a special little hatred for one another. It was justified; that Canadian bastard had no decency.

Just at the thought of him, Alfred could feel the frustration thrumming from his head to his toes to his fingers that curled together tightly. 

Alfred took a swig of the beer. The bitter taste immediately filled his mouth. He shuddered, balancing himself against a wall. 

His teammates only worked to fuel the fiery hatred he felt for Matthew. Tediously throwing in a "Williams could've got it in." when he missed a shot during practice or a "Sucks to be you." when compared to the 2 Stanley cups Matthew had won to his 0. He'd deny the jealousy but everyone was fully aware Alfred was guilty of it. Especially Matthew, who egged him on whenever they played each other. 

He kept drinking and as quickly as the bottle had been opened it was empty. His hand wavered over another bottle. It crossed his mind momentarily, maybe he shouldn't—

Matthew Williams was the bane of his existence.

He grabbed another drink.

* * *

Ding.

captain_canuck sent you a message.

The notification tone was loud. It was enough to pull Alfred from his sleep and that was saying quite a bit. Cerulean eyes drifted towards the phone laying face-up on the nightstand by his bed and Alfred developed a sudden hatred for it. He buried his head deeper into his pillow, blonde locks mercilessly tickling his sun-kissed skin. Light flooded in from between the curtains of his room, suffocating Alfred. Desperately, he pulled his blanket over the back of his head -- groaning into the dark abyss of his pillow. 

The entire room stank of... of the morning. It was disgusting. He felt a heavy warmth hugging him and cursed his unreliable Air Conditioner. Nothing could make Alfred a morning person. His head was throbbing and his muscles were still sore, as if alcohol was going to do anything to reverse that. Maybe someone should've told him that 8 hours ago. 

He laid there, squeezing his eyes shut and clinging to the faint traces of sleep left in his system before hitting a sudden realization, something that made his heart leap out of his chest. His stomach sank and Alfred jerked up from the bed. He quickly reached for his phone, scanning the dim screen.

It wasn't a dream.

Alfred really did join a dating site. He could clearly remember his drunken state download some gay dating app. The pretty pink flowers and hearts in the logo caught his eye and really intrigued him to create an account. Maybe it was the fag inside his drunk self that was as attracted to hearts as his regular self was to burgers, per say. His mouth felt dry and his temples throbbed with pain. He stared down the notification on his lock screen. Did he really want to look at the message? 

The backlight on his screen dimmed and he tapped it to relapse it to its usual brightness.

Maybe it wasn't too late to delete the app all together. This was the first message he'd gotten all night. It was better to end a problem right at its source. Especially before he got too attached to anyone only to realize he'd been cat-fished by some creep with a computer. He didn't know too many people who had good experiences with these kinds of things.

But then again, as unlikely as it was, maybe Alfred could get lucky. What if there really was some potential in this? Alfred wasn't the kind to miss out on such a grand opportunity. One little peak couldn't hurt. After all, this captain_canuck sounded intriguing.

"Heyy,

I'd love to get to know you more...

Why not upload a picture?"

"Upload a picture, my ass..." Alfred grumbled at the message, brows furrowing. He was relieved even in his intoxicated state he had enough common sense as to not upload photos to his newly attained dating account. 

He pulled out the digital keyboard and began typing back a less-than-pleasant response. Perhaps it was entirely fuelled by his morning blues but Alfred had to put his foot down before he was pushed into a trap.

"Funny. Don't fuck with me in the mornings."

Alfred eyed the message, unsure if it was the best idea to respond with this much hostility. But before thinking it over too much, he hit send. He had to be straight with the guy. If he sent a photo and was recognized as the Alfred F. Jones he'd definitely be accused of cat-fishing. If he wasn't, how would his reputation look if the word got out about his rinky dink dating account? 

Ding.

captain_canuck sent you a message.

A faint brew of giddiness pooled at the bottom of his stomach and Alfred tapped onto message.

"Aren't you feisty?  
I bet you're fuckin' hot, it sounds that way. 

How 'bout we talk about it?"

Alfred's lips twitched into a sly grin as he read the message on the screen. He leaned comfortably against the headboard of his bed. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"Yeah? Let’s start by you telling me who the hell Captain Canuck is.”

* * *

It went on like that for a month, small-talk morphing into more suggestive chatter -- initiated by the restless captain_canuck. For the first few days they conversed through the dating app but soon enough the messages turned to emails, which Alfred had soon ended claiming his emails didn't send, and finally switching over to texts. Yet, neither of them had seen the other's face the entire time. Especially after Alfred had firmly settled the agreement of avoiding sending photos of each other's faces until they met face-to-face. It took a bit of persuading; the Canadian he'd met a tad stubborn. The exchange was tedious for Alfred: "Please?", "Nah.", "But why?",  
"Because I said so.", "C'mon, big boy.", "No." It was safer without the added bonus of paparazzi having the knowledge of his appearance on a dating site. It was a debate Alfred had won. 

Additionally, the Canadian suggested not to share one another's names. 

"I want the first time you say my name to be when we meet in person."

It made his heart sink but Alfred was on board for the idea. He couldn't give up another way to further conceal his identity. But the mysterious asset to their conversations was interesting. Instead of the tacky usernames they'd used on the site, they called each other by A and M. The first letters of their individual names. Alfred found it amusing, almost as if they were using code names. It reminded him of the multiple spy movies he'd watched over the years. M agreed.

The two had quite a bit in common, it's what really set M apart from anyone else he'd met. They both played hockey, enjoyed the same shows and movies, and were trying dating sites for the first time. But the largest common factor between the two of them was the level of sexual tension they packed. They were both consenting adults and came accompanied with the needs it brung. It wasn't until avoiding sex for a month did Alfred get more into the occasional dirty texts M would send and soon enough, they turned into something bigger than just messages.

One evening Alfred was sitting lazily on his couch, eyes focused on the repeated episodes from the shows he'd watched that morning. He was stuck in a haze, the TV slowly morphing into nothing but an incoherent blur of colour. Until his phone buzzed. He knew exactly who was texting him. Alfred snapped out of the trance that sponge on the screen had trapped him in and grabbed for his phone. He turned it on and—

Alfred had never been more aroused by a single picture. A hand carded through his hair as he examined the perfectly sculpted body in the shot. He could feel blood rushing towards his cock -- covered only by loose-fitted sweatpants and boxers. His hand was granted incredibly easy access, especially because he wanted it so bad. His palm pressed against his erection, covered only by thin cloth. A shiver ran up his spine, grunting lowly at the lack of actual contact. Alfred's eyes read the words below the picture, which only teased him further.

"How's the view? ;)" 

It was amazing.

The photo had only been from M’s shoulders -- perfectly cutting off his face -- to just below his hips, the rest being concealed by a strategically placed white towel. The pesky cloth was held up by a flexed arm, bulging with chiselled muscles. It was taken in a bathroom mirror with the camera of his phone. The corners of the mirror were foggy with mist that transitioned into droplets of water, dripping down onto the marble counter. 

Alfred pulled his half-hard cock out from his bottoms, getting sick of the palming. Setting his phone down, he reached for the remote and lowered the volume of the tedious laugh echoing from the TV. Alfred began stroking himself to the steamy picture. He ogled the pale skin stretched over perfectly built muscles, perky nipples, and freckles peppered over his upper chest and shoulders. Alfred wondered if the trail lead up to his face. He panted, trying to imagine the face attached to the swole body that graced his phone. But nothing came up.

His hand got faster on his cock as his eyes moved lower.

Alfred scanned the man's delicious abdominals, still wet with water from his shower. Muscles curved downwards into a risqué V that dipped and unfortunately, ended mid-way at the towel wrapped far lower than it would regularly be. His eyes never left the photo, working his cock hard. He tried to imagine it was M's hand on him. It definitely wasn't the same but Alfred went with it, adding to the experience by moaning out the Canadian's nickname...

Nickname because he still wasn't sure of the stranger's actual name. The stranger he was roughly pleasuring himself over, rubbing and tugging his dripping cock -- pretending it was that very stranger's thumb teasing the slit. Convincing himself that that stranger's built body was flush against his own. His legs spread out wider on the couch, sweat beading at his hairline. His glasses were askew and threatening to fall off his nose but Alfred couldn't care less because he was so close to his climax. His toes curled at the anticipation, muscles tensing at the scorching heat in his lower abdomen. 

"Fuck... Fuck, M!"

Long white ribbons left his throbbing cock, splattering against his stomach. He was left panting, his phone trembling in his hand. While his mind was still hazy from the orgasm, Alfred quickly snapped a photo of the mess on his abdomen along with his cock flush against his skin. He sent it, along with a simple sentence to praise the Canadian.

"God, you're so sexy, baby."

He jerked off again later that night.

* * *

"Get your head in the game, Jones!" 

Alfred's head coach screamed from the sidelines, barely audible above the shrieking of fans as he was -- for the 10th time that game -- body checked against the boards. It was the first game of the season and Alfred was always rusty after the 3-month long break, it was his one flaw he'd admit to having. And something his coach always brought up after the off-season. That man definitely wasn't one of the most forgiving people out there, but he'd definitely take back his hollering the next game when Alfred kicked ass. He was determined to prove himself once more.

Apart from Alfred getting bullied by the opposing players that had realized he was "out of it", the gameplay was static and boring. No real fights had broken out and the Dallas Stars lead with a measly 1-0. The preseason games were always pathetic when it came to the excitement factor.

The deafening sirens soon blared, signalling the end of the game and the crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, Alfred's ears ringing at the cheering obviously directed at his team. A win was never a bad way to start the year. But in the moment, he surprisingly couldn't care all that much. All he wanted to do was pick up his phone and text a certain Canadian.

Getting into the hockey season, their regular chats slowed to a text or two a day. Alfred very vaguely blamed it on work and M followed suit -- the two of them mutually refusing to talk more in-depth about it. But something was obviously amiss. They had a connection but Alfred couldn't encourage himself to act on it and he hoped M felt the same way. It was at least an improvement when it came to the other lacking any feeling at all. A cold stone of fear lodged itself in Alfred's stomach -- setting terrifying thoughts in his head. Maybe his team had realized something was afoot as well, seeing how Alfred wasn't jumping to hug the closest teammate in celebration.

It took some time for the crowd to clear away but as soon as Alfred had the chance to leave the stadium he pulled out his pocketed phone to a new message from M. He thumbed at the Messages app before pulling out the Canadian's text. 

"Hey, busy? I was thinking... We've been talking for a while and I really wanna hear your voice. Can I call you, A?"

Alfred blinked at his phone screen, contemplating the idea as he got in his car. This was new. New but welcomed. He didn't hate the thought of it. Despite the anxiety seeping into his skin to settle against his bones, pooling like poison. 

Okay... maybe he was a little nervous.

* * *

He knew from the beginning it wouldn't work out like a regular phone call. Alfred was already timid enough about talking on the phone -- a fear he'd only revealed to his closest friends-- even if it was a phone call with a stranger he'd been texting for 3 months. But they were both nervous about it. It was blatantly obvious.

"Hello?" Alfred's breathing was unsteady, watching the wall in front of him as though it held the secrets to life as we know it. His legs curled underneath him, his digits anxiously tugging at the cloth of his hoodie.

Silence hung heavy in the air, Alfred's fingers tight around his phone as he waited for a response. He wouldn't be surprised if it crushed under the pressure of his hand.

There was a breathy laugh on the other end of the line, it sounded forced. "Hey... I- uh, fuck... big step, huh?"

He hummed into the phone, the Canadian's deep voice soothing his nerves. It was incredible hearing it for the first time. It would only get better from there. But, his palms were still sweaty, he just wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want to ruin this and voice something annoying or idiotic like he often did. "Yeah..."

"It's really nice to finally hear your voice, and your dumbass accent. What is that? Texan?”

Alfred scoffed, "if anyone has an accent it's you, buddy!" He paused, "--Eh."

There was a bona fide laugh on the other end and Alfred felt a smile break the quivering of his lips. 

"Leave me and my Eh's alone, Mr. freedom fries."

This was going to work out just fine. 

* * *

With what started off as a good hockey season quickly revealed its true colours as the Dallas Stars plummeted into a tragic losing streak. On the other end, the Edmonton Oilers, with their asshat Captain Williams, were doing practically perfect. Their fuming -- and obviously embarrassed -- coach pulled the team together only to rant each and every player's ears off, listing every individual mistake they'd made in the first month of playing. Anyone who left that "friendly get-together" a happier or better man wasn't properly functioning. The group of agitated players included Alfred who left the room with hungry fists, looking for something to hit. Anyone stupid enough to talk to him would get a nasty bruise. Unless, of course, it was a certain someone calling from Canada. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he raised it to his ears, growling a harsh "What." into the call.

The voice on the other end hooted, but the frustration hit him as rather familiar. As if he'd heard the exact identical tone of voice somewhere else... M chose to drop it. "Damn, A, who pissed in your cereal?"

Alfred immediately recognized the voice and regretted not checking the caller ID, blurting out a hasty apology. "Damn, sorry. It's just my co-- Uh, boss." He mentally cursed himself for nearly slipping up. "The proud bastard won't keep his mouth shut, I wish someone would put him in his place."

"Yikes. Why don't you do it?"

Alfred laughed his usual booming laugh, "Yeah! And live the rest of my days on the streets, good idea!"

"Aww, don't be so harsh. I'd pick you up and take you home."

"Like a hooker?"

"Exactly."

Their phone calls became a regular part of Alfred's daily life, taking up a good bit of his time. But he didn't mind. It had gotten to the point where he was no longer nervous talking to M, he was like a friend to him... But he wanted to be more.

The Canadian was a big part of ending his trips to his beer-stocked fridge, even the celebratory ones. Alfred had finally found something to counter his addiction, the company of the most perfect man alive.

But when he was alone at night with no one but his thoughts, he harboured unspoken concerns. He worried that M would get bored of him and leave. And that he would be left waiting for the phone call that would never come...

* * *

"I want you to fuck me 'till I can't walk."

Alfred shivered, his toes curling into the white sheets of his bed. His phone rested next to his head, set to speaker so he could talk hands-free. 

It started once again with a picture M had sent him. A photo of his erect cock, dripping with pre-cum. He'd stared for a while before desperately calling the Canadian -- rubbing himself as his eyes ran along the immense length the man was packing. The ache in Alfred's jaw for a dick had never been more prominent. He would let M mouth-fuck him like a toy to be played with and thrown away, shoving his nose all the way down to the light patch of hair at the base of his cock -- blond, just like Alfred's. His arousal was strong and it drove him to crave hearing M's voice. His weeping dick was begging for it.

The Canadian was obviously caught off-guard at first, but the hesitation melted away as he heard the soft panting coming from Alfred. A door closed and locked on his end. "Yeah? You really think you could handle that?" His own hand found a way to his dick, jacking himself off to just the keening noises coming from the American. He had a hunch that Alfred preferred to bottom and the man's words only further proved his notion. "I'd make a mess of your needy ass."

Alfred moaned, dragging his thumb roughly against the slit of his cock. "Oh, God, M!"

"That's right," the man growled, "Say my fucking name." 

This was the closest thing he was getting to sex with the Canadian but it was amazing. His hand jacked his cock furiously and the other hand played with his nipples. He shut his eyes, "Fuck! You're so big, I want you inside me." His words were strangled and needy, a loud moan following thereafter. At this point he was sure pulling an act like this in a hotel room wasn’t the greatest idea, but he couldn't care less. 

"Mmm, I bet you're tight aren't you?" The Canadian's voice was slow and husky over the phone, his words going straight to Alfred's dick. "I wanna bend you over and pound into your tight ass." 

"Fuck-- please," he choked out through gritted teeth. He could hear M moaning in approval and as if it were a possibility, Alfred's hand quickened. "You can take advantage of me and do whatever you want with me." His fingers were damp and coated with the precum beading at the tip of his dick. "Leave me thinking about your thick cock for days."

The Canadian's breathing got heavier and Alfred could practically feel it on his neck through the phone. "I wanna pin you down and fuck you so hard you can't see straight. I'd give you just what you want, you snarky bitch."

The image of M's cock was still fresh in Alfred's mind and it was a blessing the owner of it was gifted with such a strong sex drive. His words dripped with arousal and he wondered how breathtaking fucking him would be. He'd bang the Canadian as much as he wanted for as long he wanted while he was belittled from up above. "A-Ah, I'd let you fuck me everyday like your own personal cock slut." His raspy voice coiled into a purr.

M listened intently to the sounds coming from Alfred. His moans were addictive, toxic sounds that made this so much more erotic than it already was. He was drunk on the noises and made it his goal to leave him a moaning mess. "What a little slut. You wouldn't be able to get up if I had you everyday." His smile was filthy and sweet all at once, and his free hand ran through his hair -- sweaty from the heat. He could feel his own climax growing closer with every erratic stroke, bubbling in the pit of his gut and threatening to explode. Alfred felt the same, declaring it out-loud for the entire hotel to hear--

"M, fuck, I’m so close!"

The Canadian growled lowly, grinding his teeth to keep from outright moaning at the words. His hand was tight around his cock and finally, with a particularly hard pump he hit his climax. A cry ripped from his throat as he realized he couldn't take it anymore. Hot ribbons of white splattered into the toilet he stood above. His heart was beating hard enough that M could feel it against his ribs, the pulsing reaching his ears. 

Alfred followed in close second, a wanton groan passing his unrestricting lips to really confirm he'd reached his orgasm. He threw his head back, voice echoing in the night. Again, he let his cum squirt out onto his abdomen, letting the heat melt into his body. His fingers massaged lazy patterns into the creamy substance, his chest heaving up and down. Only then did he realize the sweat gliding across his body, imitating a cool stream. "Wow..."

Once his vision cleared up, he heard M beginning to speak -- his voice just as shaky as Alfred assumed his own was.

"A..."

Alfred could barely conjure together the words to form an audible reply, murmuring out, "Yeah? Fuck..."

M's breathing was heavy into the phone, as if he was trying to catch his breath after running a marathon. There was a short pause before he finally spoke up.

"I'm coming to Dallas, I-I think I'm falling for you." 

Alfred's breath hitched and he sported a look like he'd been struck across the mouth. He stilled, so much so that it was difficult to tell if he was even breathing, eyes unblinking and wide. The tip of his tongue darted out to wet painfully chapped lips. At this point he couldn't tell what emotion was more prominent: the arousal, the anxiety, or the relief. 

"A..." The words came through softly, begging for a response -- for anything. 

He turned and hit the End Call button with his clean hand. 

* * *

Alfred didn't leave his house the next day, skipping practice due to an illness he'd claimed to have contracted. His teammates offered him condolences but he couldn't genuinely feel better until M called him.

He didn't call.

* * * 

"I'll be in Dallas this Saturday."

Alfred stared at the message open on his phone, terror, worry, and trepidation simultaneously coursing through his veins. At this rate, he'd sprout grey hairs before he turned 25. There was a single emotion he was telling himself that he should've felt; he should've been excited all on its own. But Alfred was busy that Saturday and M wasn’t happy.

He had insisted he couldn't meet up. Alfred, who in reality had a hockey game, sent off an excuse about having to work late that night. 

“I don’t understand why you can’t just skip work.”

It was nearly the third time M had suggested it. It pained Alfred to an incredible extent to just miss out on the Canadian being in Dallas, on a business trip as he’d plainly put it. He racked through his mind, attempting to come up with a solution, and the simplest options popped by.

He tapped back into his messages, quickly typing into the virtual keyboard. 

“Just meet me on Sunday. I’m doing nothing.”

Alfred awaited a response, hoping — praying — this could end their argument. He observed as three little dots appeared and vanished on his phone screen, before a message delivered. 

“Gotta leave for Colorado early the next morning.”

“Is there no way you can stay a little longer?” 

Maybe he was grasping for straws, but Alfred had to ask. He couldn’t miss out on something as big as this. Finally seeing the guy he’d been talking to for months on end. Finally, they would no longer be strangers.

Unfortunately, Alfred had forgotten the Canadian’s low tolerance for bullshit.

“Are you fucking kidding? Why can’t you just take the night off of work? You’re acting like an asshole.”

Alfred furrowed his brows at the message, he didn’t mean for this to happen. But now he was pissed off as well. It was only a matter of time before he lost his cool on M. He didn’t want to, but he had to defend himself.

“Fuck you.”

He pressed send before any thoughts of regret jolted him. He shut off his phone and left it on the coffee table. Alfred didn’t care if the Canadian hated his guts. He didn’t care if he never wanted to talk to him again. He didn’t...

God, he wished he could take it back.

* * *

The next day Alfred watched over his phone, clicking it on every time he thought he’d received a text

Friday was radio silent.

* * *

It was Saturday night and Alfred wasn’t with M. Instead, he was in a locker room surrounded by rowdy teammates chattering on about God knows what. 

Alfred silently slid on his skates. He tied them up, then retied them because he’d messed it up. He was almost completely suited up, just missed his helmet, when a teammate walked over to him — a fellow line mate.

“Hey, you good, dude?”

Alfred snapped his head towards the source of the voice, nodding quickly. He had to stop thinking about M. It was his fault. Worrying about relationship problems was the last thing he should’ve been doing. None of it mattered now, because he was minutes away from playing the Oilers and he would do anything to win. 

“Nervous about the big game?” The other snickered.

“Gil, you call every single game we play the big game.” He laughed, but it was forced. “I’m ready, but this is gonna be a breeze.” 

Gilbert scoffed, “you’ll be facing off against Williams, won’t you? That’s pretty big.”

“Easy shit. I’ll go extra and rough him up a little too, the big softie needs a blow to his face.”

His features curled into amusement, and Gilbert lightly punched Alfred’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, the last guy Matthew fought got his nose broken.” His eyes shifted to Alfred’s helmet, still stuffed away in its storage compartment. “Better tighten up that helmet.”

Alfred reached for his missing piece of equipment, directing a mock frown towards Gilbert. “What? You don’t believe in me?” 

“I do! It’s just that I believe Matthew’ll send you to the ER if you try anything.”

“Watch me.”

It was a matter of minutes before the two teams began spilling out onto the ice for warmups, with the Dallas stars in green and the Oilers in orange. Alfred scanned the ice and the bleachers, trying to push himself out of his thoughts. It was time to focus on what he knew best, hockey. Despite it being his speciality, it wasn’t easy as he thought it’d be. It’s when he positioned himself at centre ice, staring dead into Matthew’s eyes that he realized this was in fact a high stakes game.

He hesitated and Matthew robbed faceoff from him. The Canadian chuckled. Alfred wasn’t going to let it go.

It was a dramatic game and tension between the two teams only rode higher as the score tied practically seconds after each lead. Alfred had begun fulfilling his promise of irking Matthew early. He’d occasionally tap the Canadian with his stick blade, nudge him, or belittle him with open ice hits. And the trash talking... the trash talking was persistent and vulgar. It wasn’t long before Matthew began giving in to the frustration and started returning the favour. He hit Alfred two times harder, trash talked him two times worse, and made sure even the fans knew he was out to get him. Each time Matthew did something in favour of his own team, the booing worsened. He loved it.

But the Oilers were still down by 1 with practically no time remaining on the clock. The Stars had managed to get the puck into the back of the net with 20 seconds left in the third period and now the opposing team was really in a tight spot. 

They were back at centre ice and Alfred never felt so good. He was the one who scored that last second goal. He made the crowd blow up and shake the entire arena. Their deafening cheering was music to his ears and it sealed their win. The Oilers couldn’t come back from this.

They didn’t.

Alfred had less than a second to bask in the glory of the end of a fantastic win before a certain captain charged up to him, shoving him against the boards. What could’ve been a potential overtime win for the Oilers was foiled by one little point. Matthew couldn’t redo the game, but he could make an example of that pest. 

“Take another cheap ass shot at my goalie. Try it. I’ll fucking kill you.” He snarled out, fists tight on the green cloth of Alfred’s jersey. Pale freckled skin was splotched with red, Matthew was clearly furious. He had an act then think mentality, and it seemed a target had appeared on Alfred’s face. “Fuck you, A.”

Alfred froze and Matthew blinked, aware of what he’d accidentally blurted out — too caught up in his anger to realize. Something racked the American’s body and the ringing in his ears from the fans yelling increased. Had he misheard that? “What did you just call me?”

Matthew backed off of Alfred. “It’s nothing. Forget it, good game.” He turned away from Alfred but the American chased after him, forcefully turning Matthew back around.

He kept both his hands on Matthew’s shoulders and for a second, the two did nothing but stare into each other’s eyes. It was just like they’d done so many times before during face-offs. But this was different. This was so fucking different and Alfred just had to figure this out. Neither of them moved an inch, almost as if trying to figure each other out and by now Matthew’s anger had melted away. 

“M...” the nickname left Alfred’s mouth barely above a whisper. Matthew had to strain to hear, but he didn’t have to. Lips had curled so perfectly to form the single syllable and something finally clicked inside him

He felt like he’d single handedly won the play-offs because Alfred was the man he’d fallen for and he was right there all along. This was the stranger he’d dreamt about, fantasized making love to, and spent months talking to. It worked so perfectly, the puzzle pieces finally snapped together and he understood. Matthew’s eyes began stinging, tears that threatened to fall gathered at the corners. He laughed to push back the dampness in his eyes, looking down at the ice. “I hate you so fucking much.”

Alfred smiled, it was the most genuine smile he’d shown in weeks. He finally felt complete. Suddenly, he didn’t care who was around and he didn’t care who saw, because he wanted to kiss Matthew and he’d finally do it. He dropped his gloves and so did Matthew. After months of aching patience he pulled the Canadian in close. 

Their lips met and it was so gentle, so careful. It was a kiss that could’ve lasted a second, but it began to grow. It was months of want for each other packed into a single action. Something about being watched by an audience of thousands of people only heightened the passion. The fire between them that had died only days ago had reignited, stronger and better. Something that had started as a delicate kiss had finally become something much more intense. Fingers curled into skin and cloth and their helmets clinked against each other. The contact was intoxicating, the two practically melted into one another, struggling to maintain perfect balance on the ice. The kiss packed so much intensity, it filtered into the atmosphere and everyone could feel it. 

They finally broke apart, the two of them still struggling to get their breathing into an orderly fashion. Alfred grinned at Matthew and the Canadian returned the look. “I can’t believe it... you’re... you’re you.”

“You got lucky, didn’t you?” Alfred chuckled, “Can I take you out for dinner? Been waiting for this for a while.” The southern drawl sounded almost identical to how it did over the phone, just much clearer. It was just as endearing.

Matthew nodded, still in disbelief. “Yeah, definitely, whatever you want. You can take me to fucking McDonald’s for all I care.”

Alfred could hear his coach yelling out his name, it was his cue to get off the ice. He had to hurry it up if he was going to receive a lecture from his coach and still have time to meet up with Matthew.  
“Fuck, I love you Matt.”

The Canadian swiped his palm across his eye, unable to keep the smile on his lips away. “I think everyone in the building knows that.”

“I love you too.”


End file.
